Preview — By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept
by Elizabeth Smart

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept

First published in 1945, Elizabeth Smart's By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept is an enigmatic and nearly indescribable book, a small classic of poetic prose whose author has been compared with Anaïs Nin and Djuna Barnes. In lushly evocative language, Smart recounts her love affair with the poet George Barker with an operatic grandeur that takes in the tragedy ofFirst published in 1945, Elizabeth Smart's By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept is an enigmatic and nearly indescribable book, a small classic of poetic prose whose author has been compared with Anaïs Nin and Djuna Barnes. In lushly evocative language, Smart recounts her love affair with the poet George Barker with an operatic grandeur that takes in the tragedy of her passion; the suffering of Barker's wife;the children the lovers conceived. Accompanied in this edition by The Assumption of the Rogues and Rascals, a short novel that may be read as its sequel, By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept has been hailed by critics worldwide as a work of sheer genius....more

Community Reviews

when i was thirteen, i had a journal. and i would lie on my tummy and kick my feet in the air and record my tiny thoughts.

when i was fifteen, i had a journal. and i would smoke a joint and lie on my tummy and record my huge earthshattering thoughts.

when i was nineteen, i had a journal. and - well, let's save something for the biopic, shall we?

i don't have a journal anymore. and you know why?

because i write huge purple monsters of sentences and only end up making myself smalli disagree with greg.

when i was thirteen, i had a journal. and i would lie on my tummy and kick my feet in the air and record my tiny thoughts.

when i was fifteen, i had a journal. and i would smoke a joint and lie on my tummy and record my huge earthshattering thoughts.

when i was nineteen, i had a journal. and - well, let's save something for the biopic, shall we?

i don't have a journal anymore. and you know why?

because i write huge purple monsters of sentences and only end up making myself small and shy when i come across them years later.

this book suffers from many of these sentences.

i should have known from the first page:

I am standing on a corner in Monterey, waiting for the bus to come in, and all the muscles of my will are holding my terror to face the moment I most desire.

ugh. i can feel raymond carver hurling an empty bottle of booze at this sentence in disgust, and for once, i am with him.

there is a way to be evocative and complicated and beautiful all at once, "the smile on your face was the deadest thing alive enough to have the strength to die," anyone??

this?? this ain't that. and as an opening sentence it just stuck in my craw and tainted the rest of the book.

i like crisp prose, clean lines, smart phrasings. this seemed too self-indulgent - too emotionally bloated.too much "why use one word when you can use ten and still say nothing??" going on.

Not God, but bats and a spider who is weaving my guilt, keep the rendezvous with me, and shame copulates with every September housefly. My room echoes with the screams she never uttered, and under my floor the vines of remorse get ready to push up through the damp. The cricket drips remembrance unceasingly into my ear, lest I mislay any items of cruelty's fiendish inventory.

oh, yeah?? is that what shame does?? it copulates with houseflies, does it?? gosh, i hope the maggot gets shame's eyes...i have no patience for this sort of thing.

Fear will be a terrible fox at my vitals under my tunic of behaviour.

i say no thank you.

brigid brophy's introduction is excellent. i read it last, of course, and it made me appreciate the book so much more in retrospect, and it also reminded me of the several parts i did enjoy. but i have to give it two stars, because i really didn't enjoy reading it. there were moments of great beauty, but too many parts where i was just gagging on her prose. i am all for pain and howling emotions,but isn't it the responsibility of the writer to marry the vulnerable raw nerves with craft?? it is true there were many moments where i was totally on-board with her writing, but when it was bad, it was very very bad.

okay, so i have been really sad for a couple of days now. and i have reread great swathes of this book under the influence of my own ragged emotions.and i am ashamed to admit that i like it more now. i have to keep the two-stars for that is how i felt when i really read it, but might i suggest reading this when you are in the throes of some sort of emotional tidal wave?? it was not meant for happy eyes. although there still isn't any shame copulating with any houseflies here at my place.

This book is written in poetic prose and is condidered by some critics to be a masterprice in the genre. I can safely say I have never read anything quite like it before. The book trailer uses the word indescribable and I certainly agree. This book won't be for everyone; you can read the varying reviews and see that. I don't think you can just pick the book up and understand what it's about without some background information. I read as much as I could about the relationship of Elizabeth Smart aThis book is written in poetic prose and is condidered by some critics to be a masterprice in the genre. I can safely say I have never read anything quite like it before. The book trailer uses the word indescribable and I certainly agree. This book won't be for everyone; you can read the varying reviews and see that. I don't think you can just pick the book up and understand what it's about without some background information. I read as much as I could about the relationship of Elizabeth Smart and George Barker beforehand, and it enhanced my understanding and appreciation of the book.

In the 1930's, Elizabeth Smart was browsing a London bookstore on Charring Cross Road, when she came across a book of poetry written by British poet George Barker, and instantly fell in love with the man, never having met him, and declaring him the love of her life. This epiphany would eventually bring them together, and even though he was married, they would begin a love affair that would last for years, produce four children, and cause untold grief and heartache for everyone involved. When you keep that in mind while you are reading, you can see the beauty of what she is saying, and the genius in the writing of it.

It was originally published in 1945 and reissued in 1966, when Angela Carter writing in the Guardian said, "It's like Madame Bovary blasted by lighting". It's hard for me to find anything to compare it to, but it struck the perfect note with me and I loved it.

I had a joke I was going to start off with, but I can't remember exactly what it was. I promised Karen I'd put it in here though. Karen bought this book for me in Portland at Powell's, I don't know why this book was on my to-get list, but the title would have definitely been enough for me to want the book. I think it might have been a favorite of Morrissey. I'd added a few books a while back because Morrissey liked them. Anyway, Karen bought this for me, and Elizabeth was interested in the bookI had a joke I was going to start off with, but I can't remember exactly what it was. I promised Karen I'd put it in here though. Karen bought this book for me in Portland at Powell's, I don't know why this book was on my to-get list, but the title would have definitely been enough for me to want the book. I think it might have been a favorite of Morrissey. I'd added a few books a while back because Morrissey liked them. Anyway, Karen bought this for me, and Elizabeth was interested in the book when she saw it (I think, I wasn't there) and she was interested to see what I thought of it. When I was reading this book I don't know if Karen reminded me that Elizabeth wanted me to write a review, or I just had the book with me and I pointed at the cover and said Elizabeth wants to read this book because (here I did a very funny voice, it's nothing like Elizabeth's real voice, it's my token I'm imitating someone voice) "My name is Elizabeth, and I'm Smart. Look at the book, it says so right here, Elizabeth Smart, that's me, I'm smart!" It probably wasn't much funnier in person.

Right from the start this book falls in to the win category with the title.

If the book was only the hundred page lyrical / prose / poem / novella (I don't really buy the introduction's effort to classify this as a poem but it can be a poem. For the sake of this idea, this review is a poem) it would have five stars. Yep, five stars. It is angry and bitter and beautiful and captures the best parts of love and pain and heartbreak. All things good. I thought that I had underlined some passages I really liked, and I was going to share those here, but apparently I only marked one. It is:

Wherever we went, though, whatever we did, we had always to return like cornered foxes to the hotel room. And always the wallpaper dispersed with its heavy writing any optimism we might have gathered. There were no solutions in the writing on the wall. It urged us to despair. It is criminally responsible for all histories.

For who plans suicide sitting in the sun? It is the pile of dust under the bed, the dirty sheets that were never washed, that precipitate fatal action.

I'm awful at praising things I really like. "By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept" captures doomed and terminal love that will never fully die in a wonderful / painful manner.

The first novella is so perfect that the second one feels unnecessary. It's sort of the sequel, the and then this stuff happened, but it feels unwanted in the book. The first novella had everything and I thought this will be awesome, it will be more of the greatness. But it's not as good. It's not that "The Assumption of Rogues & Rascals" is bad, it's quite good actually, but it's not of the same caliber as the first piece.

The first piece in this book is an autobiographical-ish story of the authors love for the poet George Barker. She totally falls in love with him before even meeting him and sets him up to move from England to America and they fall in love and they have a bunch of kids together. There only hitch in this storybook romance is that George Barker is married to another woman, whom he stays married too. I don't know what his wife knew, what the arrangements were, but this wasn't a Henry & June kind of arrangement. This was a woman totally in love with this poet and basically giving her life to him and only getting to be the second most important woman in his life. The first piece is about the feelings of being in love with someone attainable but not fully attainable. The second piece is about living without the person, in a foreign country, during a war with a few kids by the person. The second piece takes a while to get going, it's not until after the scene is set of life during and immediately after wartime that Smart finds her stride and really gets going. The voice of the first half of the book was varied. Now it is tired. It is bitter. It doesn't see the world through the eyes of a romantic poem, even a tragic one but sees the ugliness now. In the first part she wouldn't have seen a rose and say:

I picked these roses because they looked so disgusting, just waiting there for the bees to come and fuck them.

By the end of the second novella there is something captivating about the way she goes about telling the second half of her story. The problem is putting the two halves together in one book. They are too similar but just different enough that they are jarring to each other. They don't complement each other but stand almost as fun house mirrors distorting the other. May I suggest if you read this book that you read the first novella, and then read a few other books and then return to the world of Elizabeth Smart. I think you will find the book more agreeable that way....more

Elizabeth Smart was in a longterm relationship with the poet George Barker, even having four children with him. During that time he was married. So her life did not go the way she really wanted it to, and her longing for him permeates this book. Published in 1945, it is one of the earlier examples of "poetic prose," and the mention on the back cover that it is like Anais Nin and Djuna Barnes makes me want to read both of them; in my reading experience it is closest to Jeannette Winterson, one ofElizabeth Smart was in a longterm relationship with the poet George Barker, even having four children with him. During that time he was married. So her life did not go the way she really wanted it to, and her longing for him permeates this book. Published in 1945, it is one of the earlier examples of "poetic prose," and the mention on the back cover that it is like Anais Nin and Djuna Barnes makes me want to read both of them; in my reading experience it is closest to Jeannette Winterson, one of the authors I love and adore.

That said, I don't think this would be for everyone. It is FLOWERY and DRAMATIC and would almost feel like teenaged angst except the metaphors and allusions are very literary and almost over my head at times. I have a hard time picturing armpits like chalices, and in moments like this, she does lose me a bit.

But I was in a reading slump, and it was so different from what I was slogging through, that I enjoyed immersing into her emotions. This is considered a novel (or novella, as it is only 98 pages) because while her emotions are probably the same, the person who is the narrator in the book only has the one child.

I understand that a later book, which actually occupies the second half of this printing, The Assumption of Rogues and Rascals, tells a much less emotional tale of raising four children alone. I might read it after rereading this one....more

I am shot with wounds which have eyes that see a world of sorrow, always to be, panoramic and unhealable, and mouths that hang unspeakable in the sky of blood.

See a woman who is part of an unending love triangle, feel the music of her "love language" through this prose poem, follow the staccato of her thoughts, know that this is about love and its melancholy. Unrequited love? No. Unappreciated love, I would say. Love that is not true. But who I am to judge the confounding love the author share

I am shot with wounds which have eyes that see a world of sorrow, always to be, panoramic and unhealable, and mouths that hang unspeakable in the sky of blood.

See a woman who is part of an unending love triangle, feel the music of her "love language" through this prose poem, follow the staccato of her thoughts, know that this is about love and its melancholy. Unrequited love? No. Unappreciated love, I would say. Love that is not true. But who I am to judge the confounding love the author shares with her married, unavailable, and narcissistic lover?

My beloved is mine and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.

No, I won't judge the love, I'll judge the content and how it makes me feel.

I will mention the references to the Songs of Solomon, how the depth of their nuance add to the lyrical movement of this classic piece; how I was pleasantly surprised to see these familiar words presented in this book :

The king hath brought me to the banqueting house and his banner over me was love.

I will discuss how the deliberate secrecy of this piece perhaps adds to its stylistic mastery, and this could be why most poetry students or readers are encouraged to read it. (Although, it is important to note that secrecy was most likely a necessary choice, given the times, especially since there is a scene in the book, when the author is stopped at the Arizona state border and interrogated, because she is an unmarried woman attempting to cross state lines with a married man).

Injure me, betray me, but only make me sure of the love, for all day and night, away from him and with him, everywhere and always, that is my gravity, and the apples (which ben ripe in my gardayne) fall only towards that.

What I really liked about this piece, is the serene melancholy written with precious meticulousness:

The knife stuck in my flesh leaves only the hole that proves I am dead.

This is about love, desperation, and mental disparity (contemplated suicide also plays a role here). It is beautiful and disjointed; somber, yet hopeful; trenchant, yet gracious, and articulate, but at times, also reticent.

But my eyes, like the bloody setting sun, peer through the veils and mists which rise from sorrow, towards that meeting which I must have or die.

Love, or obsession?

This is based on a true story. Elizabeth Smart saw a volume of George Baker's poetry, fell in love with him, and then concocted a tale that included flying he and his wife from Japan to the United States. There, she began her plan to have him: "I cannot be a female saint. I want the one I want. He is the one I picked out from the world. I picked him out in cold deliberation." If this doesn't add drama to a book, I don't know what does.

Not surprisingly, this book, which was first published in 1945, ends up in a lament--with mythical and biblical interpretations. It is the kind of book someone gives a 3-star rating, and the other, a 5-star rating. If you're a lover of the prose poem, chances are, you will love this. If poetry moves you, if you are patient with the line-by-line completion in poetry because you read it with the understanding that you will grasp its meaning only per its line and not its full body, then you will appreciate this piece. However, if you are not a lover of poetry, chances are, you will hate this prose poem, for you will expect scenes and plot and definition; you will expect a narrative thread, instead, you will find a thread of mood and imagery. I'm somewhere in the middle (as is evident by my rating), but this is one of those books that adheres to the definition of a classic because after reading it, I placed it on my shelf with the thought that I must revisit it in a year or two.

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept nearly did me in. It's the story of a woman in love with a married man, and what I've found is that it's just very, very difficult to convey the feeling of "forbidden love and overwhelming lust" without seeming like you're about to give yourself a stroke. I just wanted this woman to calm down already! It was too much, way too much, and I needed a break before I could pick it up again. Fortunately for me, By Grand Central Station is a novella of only 1By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept nearly did me in. It's the story of a woman in love with a married man, and what I've found is that it's just very, very difficult to convey the feeling of "forbidden love and overwhelming lust" without seeming like you're about to give yourself a stroke. I just wanted this woman to calm down already! It was too much, way too much, and I needed a break before I could pick it up again. Fortunately for me, By Grand Central Station is a novella of only 100 pages, followed in this volume by a sequel (also around 100 pages) called The Assumption of the Rogues and Rascals. In The Assumption, our easily excitable heroine is now on her own, figuring how to move forward with a broken heart and, most interestingly, how to write about it. I related to this section much more than I was expecting, and I enjoyed it quite a bit. Cooler heads prevailed and my reading experience was rescued. I can see why this book has stayed in print all these years—its portrait of a woman of heart and mind is unique and quite obviously groundbreaking. Respect....more

Poetry in prose. Very emotional telling of a forbidden relationship. It is said to be a classic in this genre.

Written by Elizabeth Smart (1913-1986), this tells her passionate love affair with a married man, poet George Baker (1913-1991). Their relationship lasted for 18 years and resulted to four children. The book barely describes Baker but it is able to impart the variety of emotions that a woman-in-love with a married man feels. There is the intensity of love no matter if it is forbidden buPoetry in prose. Very emotional telling of a forbidden relationship. It is said to be a classic in this genre.

Written by Elizabeth Smart (1913-1986), this tells her passionate love affair with a married man, poet George Baker (1913-1991). Their relationship lasted for 18 years and resulted to four children. The book barely describes Baker but it is able to impart the variety of emotions that a woman-in-love with a married man feels. There is the intensity of love no matter if it is forbidden but at the same time she has to content herself with having stolen moments from the family of the subject of that love. It is sad. Falling in love can be sad, we all know that. However, you can't help be mesmerized by Smart's poetic prose as you will keep on wondering if you have to be that in love to be able to write a brilliant work of art like this.

My little complaint is that I felt unprepared for a prose poetry like this. It's a bit too much to read an emotional poetry about how a woman feels in full 128 pages. If I was a woman and in my 20's or 30's, I might have felt differently about this book especially if I got into an illicit affair. Hah, but no. Oh no.

I am glad to have read the pioneer book in the prose poetry genre. Thank you, Elizabeth Smart of writing this classic....more

Being 'prose poetry', a concept I admit I am uncertain about - where is the line drawn between lyrical prose and prose poetry? - Elizabeth Smart's By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept, acknowledged everywhere as 'a classic of the genre', is dense and florid. Too often I felt like I was looking at a Magic Eye picture, struggling to make out the actual story and meaning in the confusion of language. This was all the more frustrating because having read a bit about the background of this stBeing 'prose poetry', a concept I admit I am uncertain about - where is the line drawn between lyrical prose and prose poetry? - Elizabeth Smart's By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept, acknowledged everywhere as 'a classic of the genre', is dense and florid. Too often I felt like I was looking at a Magic Eye picture, struggling to make out the actual story and meaning in the confusion of language. This was all the more frustrating because having read a bit about the background of this story, Smart's correspondence, affair and ensuing relationship with the (initially married) poet George Baker, I was keen to know more. Nevertheless there are some - many - beautiful lines, a few of which immediately jumped out at me as being recognisable from Smiths songs, especially those used in 'What She Said' (a song particularly close to my heart because, as I may have mentioned before, for part of my A Level English coursework I wrote a dramatic monologue based on it. The monologue was from the point of view of a woman who has murdered her husband's lover. What a weird and coincidental closing of the circle!) This is undoubtedly a beautifully written book, and as much of the praise of it points out, it feels very timeless. However, I struggled to appreciate the raw honesty and passion it's famous for because I just found it too abstruse, too mired in wordplay, metaphor and reference to be truly moving. ...more

Very divided about this book, hence the 3 stars. On the one hand, gorgeous gorgeous prose: there were many sentences I read over and over. And the subject matter--obsessive love--is conveyed with the sort of honesty that's humbling ("honesty" actually feels pretty pallid when applied to Elizabeth Smart, but I can't think of a word that means "beyond honesty").

On the other hand (and I realize this sort of criticism is like being confronted with a particular type of animal--say a horse--and whiniVery divided about this book, hence the 3 stars. On the one hand, gorgeous gorgeous prose: there were many sentences I read over and over. And the subject matter--obsessive love--is conveyed with the sort of honesty that's humbling ("honesty" actually feels pretty pallid when applied to Elizabeth Smart, but I can't think of a word that means "beyond honesty").

On the other hand (and I realize this sort of criticism is like being confronted with a particular type of animal--say a horse--and whining that I wish it were a cat), I found the book's almost entirely internal focus, its total lack of description of Smart's lover, maddening. I wanted to believe in her love for him... and yet the two or three things the reader's able to discern about him make him sound not only not loveable, but not even particularly likeable. Which makes the obsessiveness of Smart's feelings for him hard to get behind. I was torn between feeling tremendous empathy for her, and wanting to reach into the book and shake her....more

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept is a prose poem that details the narrator's affair with a married man, and her emotions relating to her situation. And it is beautiful, that much I can say. Elizabeth Smart's prose poetry is full of lush imagery and beautiful turns of phrase, and if I wasn't so weird about writing in my books, I would have underlined most of this book.

This review will only be short, as there's not much else I can say about this, but at times I did find the prose a litBy Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept is a prose poem that details the narrator's affair with a married man, and her emotions relating to her situation. And it is beautiful, that much I can say. Elizabeth Smart's prose poetry is full of lush imagery and beautiful turns of phrase, and if I wasn't so weird about writing in my books, I would have underlined most of this book.

This review will only be short, as there's not much else I can say about this, but at times I did find the prose a litle difficult to follow - this is a book that does require full concentration, and demands to be read in one sitting, not multiple ones like I did. However, even if I didn't understand everything I was reading, I was happy enough to be fully immersed in the language. This is a book I will definitely read again....more

My goodness, this slim little book makes me feel curmudgeonly. Look at the cover, the praise showered on it for being true and real and a masterpiece, and really, all I felt was irritated. I wasn't convinced this was a great love story, any more than Wuthering Heights is. And at least with Wuthering Heights, I'm not convinced we're supposed to think it is romantic.

Note: The rest of this review has been withheld due to the changes in Goodreads policy and enforcement. You can read why I came to thMy goodness, this slim little book makes me feel curmudgeonly. Look at the cover, the praise showered on it for being true and real and a masterpiece, and really, all I felt was irritated. I wasn't convinced this was a great love story, any more than Wuthering Heights is. And at least with Wuthering Heights, I'm not convinced we're supposed to think it is romantic.

Note: The rest of this review has been withheld due to the changes in Goodreads policy and enforcement. You can read why I came to this decision here.

This self-indulgent twaddle should have stayed in Smart's journal where it belongs. Convoluted sentences, with layer upon layer of metaphor, make the book a struggle to read, and surely even in a 'prose poem' it should be possible to work out what (if anything) is going on? It made a little more sense when I had read up on Smart's life and her relationship with Barker, but I reckon a book should stand up on its own without expecting the reader to do research. In Part Ten – nearly at the end! HurThis self-indulgent twaddle should have stayed in Smart's journal where it belongs. Convoluted sentences, with layer upon layer of metaphor, make the book a struggle to read, and surely even in a 'prose poem' it should be possible to work out what (if anything) is going on? It made a little more sense when I had read up on Smart's life and her relationship with Barker, but I reckon a book should stand up on its own without expecting the reader to do research. In Part Ten – nearly at the end! Hurrah! – Smart writes: "No morbid adolescent ever clutched toward melodramatic conclusion so wildly." Well, lady, you said it....more

Way back in the early '90s, I came across Ashley Hutchings' album "By Gloucester Docks I sat down and wept", an intensely personal folk rock concept album telling the story of a doomed relationship. This book is referenced not just by the title, but because a few lines of it are quoted at a key point in the story. Hutchings' sleeve note says "those who have not read it are recommended to as soon as possible". It took me more than 20 years, but when I saw the book, I was curious enough to buy it.Way back in the early '90s, I came across Ashley Hutchings' album "By Gloucester Docks I sat down and wept", an intensely personal folk rock concept album telling the story of a doomed relationship. This book is referenced not just by the title, but because a few lines of it are quoted at a key point in the story. Hutchings' sleeve note says "those who have not read it are recommended to as soon as possible". It took me more than 20 years, but when I saw the book, I was curious enough to buy it.

Elizabeth Smart's novella is an impressionistic "prose poem" short of conventional plot but full of striking language - a book more about feeling than action, but something of a gem nonetheless....more

Feb 2015. Prose poems about how bloody exhausting it is to be in love.For some of the people / some of the times, I mean (being old enough to know those who have made it into something sustainable).

This has survived as a cult book largely thanks to Morrissey. Grand Central Station has over a hundred times more readers on here than the memoir of the affair by Smart's lover George Barker. You've won, Liz... Though - as they remained, tempestuously and non-exclusively, involved until her demise - sFeb 2015. Prose poems about how bloody exhausting it is to be in love.For some of the people / some of the times, I mean (being old enough to know those who have made it into something sustainable).

This has survived as a cult book largely thanks to Morrissey. Grand Central Station has over a hundred times more readers on here than the memoir of the affair by Smart's lover George Barker. You've won, Liz... Though - as they remained, tempestuously and non-exclusively, involved until her demise - she'd no doubt think he was woefully underappreciated now. From the little I've read elsewhere, it sounds like his former fame had much to do with personal charisma, which meant it waned after his death in old age.)

Brigid Brophy's intro celebrates Smart's juxtaposition of high-flown dramatic romance and the mundane, whereby a person can be a middle class housewife and Isolde at the same time: “it is tomorrow's breakfast rather than the future's blood that dictates fatal forbearance”. A concept which is very Moz. (I thought of Pulp first: to me this concept is quintessentially theirs, though also generally a 90s / Britpop phenom, and it has another parallel history in camp. And I realised – I suspect I have before and then forgotten – that it must be my very particular preference about voices that meant I never liked Smiths/Moz quite as much as many friends do, and why I like Pulp better.) The British lyricists improved on Smart's juxtapositions by taking them further, by making that 'housewife' working class, perhaps with a drugdey part time job and sticky-fingered kids ('Acrylic Afternoons'). The 'Grand Central Station' of the title is still too grand a replacement for the river of Babylon. Whereas Wigan Wallgate, say, would be sufficiently opposite to cause a smile if one knew the reference – and would also bring out the misery and ignominy of the weeping that could be hidden by a more obvious glamour.

Brophy compares Grand Central Station to Jean Genet – I had picked this up on a whim instead of reading the Genet I'd already started. I've had a few of these odd coincidences recently, some which are evidently due to something I'd read before and not consciously remembered: e.g. starting Orfeo and going over to The Book of Disquiet whose author was involved with a magazine called Orfeu - but I only got this a few months ago and hadn't read the intro...perhaps it's background to the intention of reading music memoirs (Morrissey & Patti Smith), but this was chosen just because it was in a stack of very short books; I'd got it after reading Smart's story in a biography of Jeffrey Bernard; she was part of the same Soho scene in the 50s and 60s.

For me, these prose poems are too full of imagery that doesn't grab like the song words it helped inspire; classical mythology, and redwoods and so forth, but perhaps more special to those who love those landscapes.

Nevertheless he first three chapters could overwhelm with the volume of the chords they struck (I gave in to underlining, very rare, weakened by reading a successsion of 5 ebooks just prior.) It's high drama of a sort that will inevitably irritate some. e.g. But he never passes anywhere near me without every drop of blood springing to attention. (Love the queerness of this too.) The tremendous gentleness of that moment smothers me under; all through the night it is centaurs hoofed and galloping over my heart; the poison has got into my blood. I stand on the edge of the cliff, but the future is already done. It is written. Nothing can escape. There was less later, though still some. Things I'd forgotten: even to recline reminds me of the stances of love, and I am unable to bear the pain of so much remembering (especially when something had never before been anyone else's favourite as it was mine). But if you do me the wrong of thinking … I can take calamity better than anyone else, remember, truly, it is only you who bestow even these gifts upon me. Though she, likewise, survived independently without significant mishap, no doubt feeling she was like a dead siamese twin being dragged around by life - but also by some autopilot hoovering and shaving between all the howling. This following made me feel so sorry for her: There is never anywhere to cry. The walls are always too thin and the sobs so loud that they echo down the street and across salt water bays. Can't even let go and be sad at home.

Sentences like those above were like some drug of addiction, and in chapters without (many) I found myself bratty and chair-kickingly bored from withdrawal, and had to consciously adjust to paying more attention to the world and difference to see the peculiarities of her experience. When she comes up against what Brophy more succinctly calls that extraordinary American law against crossing a state boundary with sexual purposes. Her parents getting involved – at her age (but this was the 1930s and 40s). Pregnant and miserable during the London Blitz. In the early chapters there were still things I didn't 'get' as much as the above paragraph, I half-lost them in the emotional melee (that she'd be jealous of him pulling a boy; possibly carrying on in front of his wife, who was definitely not agreeable to it – biographical details are hazy on that, and this is poetry, not straight autobio after all).

Thanks to Wikipedia, my opinion of Angela Carter yoyos yet again:When the book was reissued in the late 1960s, novelist Angela Carter praised the novel in a Guardian review as “like Madame Bovary blasted by lightning” but later wrote privately to her friend, critic Lorna Sage, that one of her motivations for founding the feminist press Virago was "the desire that no daughter of mine should ever be in a position to be able to write By Grand Central Station I Sat Down And Wept [sic], exquisite prose though it might contain. (By Grand Central Station I Tore Off His Balls would be more like it, I should hope.) Er, yes, because the potential to access political power and publishing obviously stopped the overblown passions of Alfred de Musset, and Verlaine and Rimbaud, and the young Goethe. Nope, not the right variable, though parenting may have been one of the factors. Smart was already well-educated and had a job in which she was able to support herself. Still, I would be embarrassed and worried if some hypothetical child of mine acted like such a groupie (we can say groupie only because it turned out he fancied her...) as to decide to have a relationship with someone after reading their book and then went to track them down; one would hope they knew that the chances of this working, unless perhaps they are already an established artist in their own right who moves in the same circles, are 99.99% against, and much higher are those of being an annoying nuisance or even criminal.

Oh, but nonetheless this book has some exqusite(ly stomach-churning) moments, and fascinating vignettes of its time, and led to some great, great lyrics. Another similarity with Genet (so far, not having finished that) - over all, preferring the works and artists it inspired to the thing itself....more

The late, great Angela Carter offered the last word on this: upon meeting Elizabeth Smart at a party, Carter apparently "wrote in fury to [her friend] Lorna Sage saying that she hoped no daughter of hers would ever be in a position to write a book like Smart's:

BY GRAND CENTRAL STATION I TORE OFF HIS BALLS would be more like it".

This anecdote (and much else) is from Kate Webb's review, "Monsters marinated in being," TLS July 8 2016, pp. 13-14.

"A boy with green eyes and long lashes, whom I had never seen before, took me in the back of a printshop and made love to me, and for two weeks I went around remembering the numbers on bus conductors' hats".

This is really powerful & I love her writing. But I'm not heartbroken enough right now to enjoy it. I need to be massively depressed to read Sylvia Plath. I need to be drinking black coffee to read Ernest Hemingway. And it would seem I need to be at 'the depths of despair' {thankyouAnneShirley} to read By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept.

Unlike any memoir or romance you've ever read, this has been called a "prose poem," but I would call it sheer poetry. Every line is cadenced, every paragraph holds a memorable metaphor and image. Written in the early 1940's while Smart was in the throes of passionate obsession, it is hot without being salacious. It doesn't have the overt sexuality of Anaïs Nin, but is nonetheless just as erotic. Smart fell in love with the poet George Barker in the most intimate fashion -- through the written woUnlike any memoir or romance you've ever read, this has been called a "prose poem," but I would call it sheer poetry. Every line is cadenced, every paragraph holds a memorable metaphor and image. Written in the early 1940's while Smart was in the throes of passionate obsession, it is hot without being salacious. It doesn't have the overt sexuality of Anaïs Nin, but is nonetheless just as erotic. Smart fell in love with the poet George Barker in the most intimate fashion -- through the written word. By reading a volume of his poetry. Although they never married (he already had a wife), they went on to have four children together, but this was written just after the birth of her first daughter. This edition also contains The Assumption of Rogues and Rascals, written in 1978, which contains vignettes of what it was like living in England post World War II, but that doesn't carry the heat of Grand Central. It also contains a very informative introduction by Brigid Brophy. ...more

This was, for me, an intensely frustrating book. The Canadian author decided as a teenager she would 'fall in love with a poet'. She grew up (somewhat) and fell in love with literary also-ran George Barker, whose main claim to fame is that TS Eliot once thought he was good. They had a protracted and dreary relationship and four children, despite his marriage and complete lack of commitment to her or anyone else.

It's a prose poem that sings in places, but mostly whines; a consequence of the poetThis was, for me, an intensely frustrating book. The Canadian author decided as a teenager she would 'fall in love with a poet'. She grew up (somewhat) and fell in love with literary also-ran George Barker, whose main claim to fame is that TS Eliot once thought he was good. They had a protracted and dreary relationship and four children, despite his marriage and complete lack of commitment to her or anyone else.

It's a prose poem that sings in places, but mostly whines; a consequence of the poet choosing a manchild as her muse. Cyril Connolly quipped about the 'pram in the hall' being the enemy of good art for me. It's worse for women, whose art is often stymied by the pram in the head.

The frustration, for me, was wishing she had used her evident talent and insight on something more substantial than love, especially the banal, self-indulgent 'I love him with my whole being' kind that is only a mirror and never a window.

Smart's book recounts her decade-long affair with the poet George Barker. It's breathtaking, glorious and idiotic and I'm totally mesmerized by it.

Angela Carter described the novel as "like Madame Bovary blasted by lightning," but later wrote to her friend that her motivation for starting the feminist press Virago was that so "no daughter of mine should ever be in the position to be able to write By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept, exquisite prose thought it might contain. By Grand CeSmart's book recounts her decade-long affair with the poet George Barker. It's breathtaking, glorious and idiotic and I'm totally mesmerized by it.

Angela Carter described the novel as "like Madame Bovary blasted by lightning," but later wrote to her friend that her motivation for starting the feminist press Virago was that so "no daughter of mine should ever be in the position to be able to write By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept, exquisite prose thought it might contain. By Grand Central Station I Tore Off His Balls would be more like it, I should hope." The novel is hailed as a "tragic, pagan erotic rosary," scorned as "a violent and adroit piece of home-wrecking." Any way you look at it, it's pretty sensational.

I passionately love the title of this book! I passionately hate everything else about this book. This isn't love Elizabeth, this is self serving nonsense! It's so introspective! She talks about how much she loves this man and yet you have no sense of why? She doesn't talk about him! She just talks about herself! It felt so long! I felt like I was endlessly reading the same paragraph! And some of the images were beautiful but some of the images were ludicrous- "my lover has Doves eyes" what in thI passionately love the title of this book! I passionately hate everything else about this book. This isn't love Elizabeth, this is self serving nonsense! It's so introspective! She talks about how much she loves this man and yet you have no sense of why? She doesn't talk about him! She just talks about herself! It felt so long! I felt like I was endlessly reading the same paragraph! And some of the images were beautiful but some of the images were ludicrous- "my lover has Doves eyes" what in the name of God!!!!!!! Your lover has the dull, unblinking eyes of a pigeon!!!!! HIDEOUS!!!! ...more

I spent a summer afternoon with this novel at the botanic gardens and there I, myself sat down and wept. By Grand Central Station I Sat Down And Wept is a poetic explosion of love in its rawest form, of emotion that is so course it stings to the touch. Each sentence is a kind of tremulous agitation, a desperate cry of complete vulnerability, an intimate caress. Could there be anything as beautiful as the love this woman bore this man?

Opens at Big Sur, which is where I was this summer! We visited Henry Miller's cabin but didn't find a copy of his Reflections On The Death Of Mishima. In fact, the staff had never heard of it. Big Sur is just like Cornwall, but light is less good.

Whoa. The intensity of Elizabeth Smart’s BY GRAND CENTRAL STATION I SAT DOWN AND WEPT can be a bit hard to take. It's like being stuck in a room with a classics scholar tripping on LSD that has a bit too much speed in it. Every word should be in all caps and followed by a thumping secession of exclamation marks!!!!!!!!

Smart’s a smarty-pants and has a way with words that keeps these rhapsodies this side of parody. It helps that her flights of fancy are anchored by the mundanity of the real worldWhoa. The intensity of Elizabeth Smart’s BY GRAND CENTRAL STATION I SAT DOWN AND WEPT can be a bit hard to take. It's like being stuck in a room with a classics scholar tripping on LSD that has a bit too much speed in it. Every word should be in all caps and followed by a thumping secession of exclamation marks!!!!!!!!

Smart’s a smarty-pants and has a way with words that keeps these rhapsodies this side of parody. It helps that her flights of fancy are anchored by the mundanity of the real world, but her tale of passionate love has the intensity of an adolescent melodrama, and I've about as much tolerance for it.

The backstories of the prose poem is that Smart fell in love with English poet George Bake through his writing, tracked him down and had a long-term affair that yielded four of this 15 children (the guy was a bit of a lothario).

I kind of agree with Angela Carter, who was blown away by Smart’s writing, but said that one of her motivations for starting the feminist press Virago was "the desire that no daughter of mine should ever be in a position to be able to write BY GRAND CENTRAL STATION I SAT DOWN AND WEPT, exquisite prose though it might contain. (BY GRAND CENTRAL STATION I TORE OFF HIS BALLS would be more like it, I should hope.)”

The book is sistered with THE ASSUMPTION OF THE ROGUES AND RASCALS, a short novel that is said to stand as a sort of sequel. The man-craziness is toned down. She seems to have found a more productive vehicle for her talents. “How can Beckett be so witty in his agony? Now I know. Once you start speaking, of course, the agony lessens — memory of it is near, but relief makes laughter. Already tragedy turns to comedy, a better form.”

Elizabeth Smart (December 27, 1913 – March 4, 1986) was a Canadian poet and novelist. Her book, By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept, detailed her romance with the poet George Barker. She is the subject of the 1991 biography, By Heart: Elizabeth Smart a Life, by Rosemary Sullivan, and a film, Elizabeth Smart: On the Side of the Angels, produced by Maya Gallus.

“I have learned to smoke because I need something to hold onto.”
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“Perhaps I am his hope. But then she is his present. And if she is his present, I am not his present. Therefore, I am not, and I wonder why no-one has noticed I am dead and taken the trouble to bury me. For I am utterly collapsed. I lounge with glazed eyes, or weep tears of sheer weakness.

All people seem criminally irrelevant. I ignore everyone and everything, and, if crossed or interrupted in my decay, hate. Nature is only the irking weather and flowers crude reminders of stale states of being.”
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